“To the Circus. Good-by. I’ll come again, about this time this day week. Poor man! How shocking!”
[THE ONE IN RED.]
ORION was mean. He gave a party once. The whisky was watered. He came to me confidentially in the course of the evening and whispered angrily:
“You see that fellow Pearson? My word! how he’s helping himself to whisky. He’s drinking it neat. I’ve watched him. Don’t you call that confounded impudence?”
He was also one of those men whose brains never seem to develop; a weak-minded chap who, when he had his hair cut, allowed the barber to wheedle him into buying a bottle of hair wash—half a crown the small size, but only four-and-sixpence for one containing more than double. Brains! Men like that have only just enough to grub along with—just enough to see that they get their proper change across the counter, and are given the right brand of tobacco.
I knew a barmaid—a nice girl, without the least harm in her. I gave her flowers—a bangle once. For some years she has been the mistress of a flourishing public-house off New Oxford Street; married a barman who had dropped in for a legacy. Doubtless by now she is the mother of an appallingly large family. Yet, whenever I met Orion, he used to snigger, bob his silly face forward, and chuckle:
“Well, old man, seen anything of Rosey lately? Fine girl, Rosey!”
I should have forgotten the girl’s very name, but Orion would not let me. He always said the same thing.
One Christmas Eve I took her to his rooms—it was the only time he ever met her. He was sitting by a tremendous fire cooking a fine turkey. The table was set out most elaborately, with flowers, crackers, serviettes folded into shape.